


The Question

by a_crystal_ball



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_crystal_ball/pseuds/a_crystal_ball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between the end of TOS and the start of the first movie. McCoy asks Kirk a question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Question

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the end of TOS and the start of the first movie. An old birthday/thank-you present for  [](http://justqueenie.livejournal.com/profile)[**justqueenie**](http://justqueenie.livejournal.com/), which I’ve dusted and polished. This is her pairing, not mine, so I hope I’ve done it justice. I must say a huge ‘thank-you’ to  [](http://simoneallen.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://simoneallen.livejournal.com/)**simoneallen** for a very thorough beta. Without her, my laughable grasp of American English and the Star Trek universe would have been apparent to the world. (Seriously, it’s bad. Before she came along I didn’t even understand how the doors work on the Enterprise. Enough said.)

**Title:** [The Question](http://a-crystal-ball.livejournal.com/900.html#cutid1)  
 **Author:**   [](http://a-crystal-ball.livejournal.com/profile)[**a_crystal_ball**](http://a-crystal-ball.livejournal.com/)  
 **Verse:** TOS  
 **Pairing:** Kirk/Spock, unconsummated slashiness  
 **Word Count:** 4.1k  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Some Kirk/OFC het thrown in, but I swear he’s not that into it!  
 **Disclaimer:** Not mine; no money made.  
 **Author’s Notes:** Set between the end of TOS and the start of the first movie. An old birthday/thank-you present for  [](http://justqueenie.livejournal.com/profile)[**justqueenie**](http://justqueenie.livejournal.com/) , which I’ve dusted and polished. This is her pairing, not mine, so I hope I’ve done it justice. I must say a huge ‘thank-you’ to  [](http://simoneallen.livejournal.com/profile)[**simoneallen**](http://simoneallen.livejournal.com/) for a very thorough beta. Without her, my laughable grasp of American English and the Star Trek universe would have been apparent to the world. (Seriously, it’s bad. Before she came along I didn’t even understand how the doors work on the Enterprise. Enough said.)

 

“Are you sure this is what you want, Jim?”   
  
I’m sitting on the flat white bed in the tiny sickbay annex when Bones asks me the question. There’s a medical device I’ve never seen in the tray on the table with the crossed legs beside where he’s standing. It’s the size and shape of a very small drinking straw, but it’s solid and curves slightly at the end. It puts me in mind of the surgical implements they used centuries ago to cut people open for operations.   
  
I’m told that particular medical practice is still technically permitted. On the rare occasions that the instruments can’t do a job, and the almost-as-rare occasions where there are no instruments to hand to remove a foreign body or relieve the pressure on a bleed, Starfleet medics can slice into a person’s skin. I’ve never seen it done, and it’s odd to think of men and women lying there, cut open and exposed for all to see, as if this will somehow make them better.   
  
I’m pondering all of this while listening to the low buzz of the ship, which is strangely magnified in the tiny airless room, and Bones is scanning my (closed, intact) chest, when he asks me if I’m sure this is what I want.   
  
When I don’t answer he carries on anyway, his monologue gaining a momentum all of its own. “I mean it’s basically a mining mission.” He waves the scanner in the air, the reading on the monitor clearly no longer important to him. “They could have picked anyone to do it. A mining vessel with a few officers on board would have been fine.”   
  
“They need a starship, Bones. The political situation-”   
  
“-Oh, damn the political situation. Let some rookie with something to prove go out and earn his pips. Why on earth does it have to be you?” He puts the scanner down and stares me in the face, his hands braced against my shoulders. “Jim, you’re practically a hero to the Federation now. A promotion is surely on the way. In fact, if you sat around drinking whisky on a farm somewhere and called it Federation business they’d probably still make you an admiral. It’s just a matter of Starfleet Command waiting for the next official review period. Not that you want to know what I think of that particular aspiration of yours, anyway.”   
  
“I’m not doing this for the status.” I twist my body away from him.   
  
He lets his arms drop, and hangs his head.  
  
“This is a serious mission. Not only is there a risk of conflict, but the dilithium is exhibiting some truly bizarre properties. Dr. Manning says that no naturally occurring mineral can possibly produce readings like that. Do you get what she means by that? Do you understand the implications?” I crane my head into his personal space, trying to recapture his gaze.   
  
His eyes drift up for a second, but his head is still bowed toward the floor.   
  
I exhale, and try to sound reasonable. “Come on, the science crews we’ve worked with in the past are the best Starfleet has to offer. We’re the only crew that boasts two senior officers with expert dilithium knowledge and field experience for god’s sake.”   
  
“Oh, I see.” Bones straightens, and looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “This is about him, isn’t it?”   
  
“I don’t know what you mean.” I suddenly feel light-headed, sitting here with my legs dangling above the floor, and I long to stand on solid ground.   
  
“Jim, when are you going to wake up and realize it’s never going to happen?”   
  
The buzzing from the engines is growing louder, and the room is uncomfortably hot. I’m glad when there’s a sudden announcement over the comm insisting I go up to the bridge to authorize a course change.   
  
Bones sighs, and checks the monitor. “Two point one, you’re fine.”   
  
I jump to the ground, and try to look steadier on my feet than I feel.   
  
“And don’t think this is over!” he yells, as the door slides shut behind me.

***

  
No matter how much time I spend on starships, I will never get used to how similar everything looks. Every single room on Deck 5 is identical and evenly spaced. Not a single door is open, and it strikes me that a newcomer to this ship could probably walk right around this ring twice before they realize they’ve been here before. I wonder if that’s how they feel at Starfleet Command – whoever it is that’s issuing our orders, I mean. The course change I’ve just spent half my shift trying to fathom makes absolutely no sense. Here we are going all the way to Rigel to pick up the mining crew, only to have to turn around and go to Vulcan, before almost coming back on ourselves as we plot a course past Risa.   
  
I nod at the two ensigns I pass in the hall, only to realize, as they disappear from view, that I’ve walked right past Azulia’s quarters. I stop in the corridor for a second; waiting to make sure I won’t bump into the ensigns again. I look down at my hands. The veins are standing out more than usual, and my skin is tinged with the refracted gray of the strip-lit walls. I think I’m aging.   
  
The inside of Azulia’s quarters is gray too. She’s reclining on the bed when I arrive, trying to look as if she always wears diaphanous frills and low-cut blouses, and just so happened to be reading on the bed when I came in. I’m not surprised, of course. I wouldn’t have come if I were expecting anything less.   
  
There’s something almost mechanical about the banter between us, like an old married couple whose sex lives have become routine and staid. She begins with a teasingly coy comment about my intentions, and I respond with a thinly veiled denial. It’s our first time, and we’re falling back on all our tried and tested moves.   
  
There’s a white light burning behind my eyes, and when I’m finally allowed to sink into her exotic skin I bury my face in the crook of her neck in an attempt to find total darkness. We establish an easy, steady rhythm, like the ticking of a pendulum on an antique clock: back and forth, back and forth. It makes me wonder how long she will take to climax. Will her passions be easily aroused, or will we stay in our comfortable rhythm for longer, the tension slowly building?   
  
I reach down between her legs. I heard a rumor that the women of her species have an oddly tactile gland around where the human clitoris would be. I brush it with my fingers, and feel it swell like a sponge. The newness of it makes my hips buck unexpectedly. Azulia gasps at my sudden passion, and wraps her legs around me. Our rhythm is instantly broken by our urgency.   
  
I cry out, and the oblivion that follows is like a blessing.   
  
***

  
  
  
When I awake I know it’s still early, and I try to slip out of bed quietly to avoid breaking her sleep. She stirs as I’m pulling down the sleeves of my uniform. When she opens her eyes they are glassy and strangely inert. “Is there somewhere you have to be?”   
  


  
  
I smile quickly. “I’m still The Captain. The mission waits for no man – and no woman.” I stride over to the bed and kiss the curve of her shoulder. “Even one as young and beautiful as you.”   
  


  
  
She shrugs, and turns into the little white pillow.   
  


  
  
“Listen Azuria, you’re a really remarkable woman. I feel very privileged to have shared this with you.”   
  


  
  
“It’s Azulia.” Her voice is tired and nonchalant, and seems to rise up from the folds of the bedding in which her long limbs are tangled.   
  


  
  
This time I smile so quickly it’s like an assault on my face. “That’s what I meant.”

“I think you should go now.” It’s becoming disconcerting, the way her body is completely indistinguishable from the sheets and the bed.

  
  
“Thanks again,” I say, before I press the button and slowly slide out of the room.   
  


  
  
As I walk away, I notice a faint pink blush spreading from my wrist to the palm of my hand. For the first time in weeks I’m aware that my heart is beating in my chest. I wish I could let Azulia know that I really am grateful for that.   
  


  
The breakfast I get from the food slot tastes like sawdust. I spear a toast point with my fork, and slowly spin it around. I poke at the rest of the food with my finger. It’s tepid and coated in a film of grease. I realize the only thing I have any real appetite for is coffee, anyway, and I refill my mug with a stronger variety.   
  
I still haven’t managed to eat much by the time I’ve finished inspecting the refitted quarters for the mining crew, signed off a few inventories and studied the mission plans. Lieutenant Charles, for reasons best known to himself, has created thirty-three contingency plans just for our first six-month phase.   
  
“Does each of these really need to be in the form of a separate plan?” I ask, as my eyes struggle to focus on number twenty-seven, which is almost identical to numbers twenty-five and twenty-six.   
  
The lieutenant is standing tall and rigid beside me, much as he has been for the past two hours. “Sir, I have also calibrated the plans to be viewed in the form of a divergence chart.”   
  
“Well, why the hell didn’t you say that two hours ago?”   
  
For the first time he falters. “Er, with respect, Sir, you didn’t ask.”   
  
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The hot white light is back, and it’s searing the backs of my eyeballs. “Just … switch to the divergence chart, Lieutenant. Please.”   
  
For the first time the reams of text and mining jargon actually seem to relate to something I can imagine the crew doing. I sigh in relief when I realize that at least some of what I’ve read looks familiar. Thank god I was actually processing the information, and not just staring at the words.   
  
“Well Lieutenant,” I eventually say. “It certainly looks like you’ve thought of everything.” He hasn’t thought of anything, of course. The second something happens that isn’t related to a routine malfunction or the half-life of a dilithium crystal the entire set of plans will be rendered useless. This time last year I’d have had a long conversation with his direct superior, but the mission hardly seems to warrant it. All I find myself saying is “why don’t you ask Lieutenant Uhura for her input on a way to break these down and communicate them more effectively to the crew? If you can do that without any significant changes, you can consider them signed off.”   
  
Lieutenant Charles looks unbearably smug, and stiffens even further as he salutes me. It’s like communicating with a Romulan Osol stick.   
  
As soon as I’ve left the briefing room, I set out in search of Bones. I find him slumped on the thin white bench of the observation deck, looking thoughtfully at a bottle of distinctly non-regulation Dekendi whisky.   
  
“I think you may have read my mind, my friend.”   
  
“I didn’t need to,” he tells the bottle of whisky. “I’ve just been reading Lieutenant Charles’ suggestions on the crew and room resource plans in an emergency medical situation relating to sections three point one through one-oh-one point two in the Starfleet Emergency Procedures Manual.”   
  
“Ah,” I say, by way of reply. I tip the whisky straight to the back of my throat as soon as Bones hands me my glass, and sink onto the bench beside him.   
  
“Thanks so much for making me a part of this one, Jim.”   
  
“You’re welcome,” I reply, closing my eyes.   
  
“You know, I could have been working in the Parisian suburbs, giving lectures to bright young cadets and dining in restaurants with real chefs, but instead I’m sailing through space-”   
  
“Alright,” I raise my arm against the onslaught. “You’ve made your feelings clear.”   
  
“Damn straight I’ve made my feelings clear. This was supposed to be our time to reap the rewards of a very challenging mission. I was looking forward to a taste of the good life. And you – you thrive on challenge and passion, Jim, you know that.” He takes a sip of his whisky, and swivels toward me. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t answered my question yet.”   
  
“What question is that?”   
  
“Is this what you want?”   
  
I look out at the yawning blackness before us, which is dotted with a surprisingly sparse array of dim stars. A group of three seems to wink and sparkle a little as we pass through a cloud of cosmic dust, only to be obscured completely.   
  
“I don’t know, Bones. I’m not sure what I want is entirely relevant to the situation. They asked for qualified crews, and ours was the first that sprang to mind.”   
  
“Oh, don’t obfuscate, Jim, it doesn’t suit you. You came to me yesterday complaining of fatigue and lethargy, neither of which has any underlying physiological cause. Now, I am asking you as your doctor: is this mission what you really want?”   
  
I down the remains of my drink in one, and take a deep breath. “It’s not an easy question to answer, Bones, but, if you really want to know, I’d say the answer is-”   
  
The jarring volume of the next announcement makes me completely forget what I’m about to say. “Captain Kirk to Transporter Room Six. Sir, we have an unscheduled arrival.”   
  
I’m on my feet before the last syllable is uttered. In one worryingly well-practiced and fluid movement, Bones has stashed the bottle in the ventilation panel below the bench and fallen into step beside me before I’ve reached the door.   
  
When we arrive at the transporter room, a beguiling Orion boy is standing in front of a long-haired Orion woman. He’s unlike any Orion male I’ve ever seen in that his shoulders are less broad, and he has a mop of fine hair almost long enough to fall into his eyes – no doubt an affectation of his relative youth. I feel a faint throbbing in my groin, and resist the urge to see if the pink tinge has crept back into my wrists.   
  
“Are you Captain Kirk?” The youth demands.   
  
“I am.” I take the opportunity to look him up and down. He is somewhat more formally dressed than I would have expected, and a military belt is snaked around his slender waist. “I must ask that you state your business immediately.”   
  
“I am Ambassador Tox of the Orion High Council. My people have instructed me to report back to them with details of your dilithium mining expedition.”   
  
“You’re a little young to be an ambassador, aren’t you?”   
  
“The High Council clearly does not agree.”   
  
“I see.” I redirect my stare to the slightly older woman behind him. “And why don’t you tell me why you’re really here? You don’t really expect me to be fooled by this slave boy of yours, do you?”   
  
She keeps her eyes cast to the ground. “I don’t know what you mean, Captain. I am merely a servant of Ambassador Tox.”   
  
“A likely story. Who are you really? Did the Syndicate send you?”   
  
“You seem to know an awful lot about our people, Captain,” her tone remains low. “I would have thought, under the circumstances, that you might have consulted us about your mission by now.”    
  
“My crew and I are not in the habit of consulting with common criminals about matters of Federation security,” I reply, despite the warning hand at my elbow from Dr. McCoy.   
  
The Orion boy is looming over me, his arm drawn back as if to attack, and I can feel his body heat through my uniform. My heart is pounding inside my chest. My crew has instantly restrained him, of course.   
  
“Search them,” I order.   
  
It doesn’t take long for one of the ensigns who sprang to my aid to produce a clear box from the folds of the Orion boy’s dress pants. Inside it is what looks like a large chunk of unpolished dilithium crystal.   
  
“Well, what have we here?” I take the box from the ensign, and glace at the markings on the box. “These are the exact coordinates of our mission.” I square my shoulders. “Where did you get this?”   
  
I am greeted with silence. The boy’s eyes are obscured by his long dark lashes, which just fall short of brushing his cheek. He is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his low-cut armor-plated tunic.   
  
“Come on, I asked you a question.” When there is still no reply, I step back into his personal space and stand on my toes to speak quietly into his ear. “You know, your mistress must have paid a good price for such a pretty slave boy.”   
  
His arm breaks free from the grasp of the officer beside him, and there’s a glorious stinging sensation around my eye as his fist connects with my face before my crew struggles to get him back under control.   
  
Bones drags me to a corner of the room. “What the hell is wrong with you?”   
  
I slump against the wall. “I have no idea.”   
  
He squares his shoulders. “Captain, I’m relieving you of duty pending a thorough medical examination. Now go.” He points toward the door, before striding into the fray. “Now why don’t you have a seat while we talk about the arrangements for returning you to your vessel,” I can hear him say, as the door hisses shut behind me.

***

  
Nurse Chapel conducts the examination, and discharges me with orders to get some rest. She’s here on secondment as part of her first year of medical training, and it’s strange to think of her moving on with her life while I make yet another long and winding journey back to my quarters.  In fact, as I will myself to keep putting one foot in front of another, I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t trudging around the poorly lit, concentric rings of this ship. I press the side of my eye, not for the first time, in the hope that the tenderness will bring another rush of adrenaline; but the woman’s done an excellent job of the regeneration, and my flesh merely feels taut and numb.   
  
I drop my hand to my side, just as Mr. Scott rounds the corner ahead of me.   
  
“Ah, Captain. Just conducting a routine electrical check.” He glances over his shoulder, and lowers his voice. “Dr. McCoy told me not to bother you, but I figure if you happen to bump into me and ask me a direct question, who am I to refuse?”   
  
“God bless you, Mr. Scott,” I manage.   
  
He looks around him once more for good measure. “We took the sample down to the labs. At first glance it looked just like dilithium, but when we ran a check it was really some sort of unknown crystallized lithium composite. It displayed all the readings reported by Dr. Manning. It turns out her entire report was based on what they found during the border checks.”   
  
“So she never analyzed an original sample?” I exhale. “Unbelievable.”   
  
“I know, Federation bureaucracy at its finest. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know that Dr. McCoy’s handed the responsibility back to the border patrols. It’s obviously just a trading scam. Give some poor trader what looks like dilithium, and then run out the back door with the goods before he realizes that thing could no more power a starship than a bucket of camel dung. It must have really been made in a lab somewhere.”   
  
“And our mission threatened to blow their cover story.”   
  
“Precisely. Looks like this whole thing’s been blown way out of proportion.” He grins, and leans forward even more for effect. “In fact, this is probably the highlight of the mission.”  
   
I force a smile, and squeeze his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Scott,” is what I say as I walk away, but I’m already contemplating what lies ahead. I watch the feeble shadows stretch and retreat beneath my feet as I walk the last few steps to my quarters. The light cuts into them from all angles, and they all but disappear as I mechanically lift each foot in turn. It’s as if I’m ghosting along the corridor, barely leaving a mark.  
  
I hesitate just before the entrance to my quarters when I realize I can smell Plomeek soup wafting through the cracks in the door.   
  
I approach slowly, flattening myself against the wall, and raise my fingertips to the doorframe. It is smooth and cold, but it warms instantly beneath my touch, and my senses are so alive I swear I can feel every tiny imperfection.   
  
I rest my forehead against the wall briefly, before moving to stand in front of the door, and stepping inside when it opens.   
  
Spock is sitting behind my table, his elbows on the surface and his long fingers touching at the tips, as he stares at the game of chess before him.   
  
The room is warm, and bathed in soft orange light. Two ribbons of steam are rising from the bowls of soup either side of the chess board.   
  
I suddenly realize I’m exhausted, and I sink into the chair opposite Spock. There are four thick, flyaway strands of hair brushing against his ear – the only things out of place in his otherwise impeccable appearance. Watching him, I get the curious sense that I have just woken from a very long sleep.   
  
“I wasn’t aware that you had taken a record of the state of our last game,” I tell him.   
  
“I did not. I reconstructed it from memory.”   
  
“Naturally. You must have had quite some time to plan your next move, then.”   
  
“Unnecessary, Captain. The next logical move is quite apparent at this stage in the game.” He tears his gaze away from the board. “I would have asked permission to come aboard, but Mr. Scott informed me that you were indisposed. I trust you are not ill?”   
  
“On the contrary, Spock, I feel … wonderful.”   
  
“That is not what Dr. McCoy tells me.”   
  
“Is that so. It seems you’ve been busy since you came aboard. Not that we aren’t grateful to you for giving us the benefit of your experience on this mission. Such as it is. You know if I’d realized you’d be joining us this soon, I’d have baked a cake.”   
  
Spock raises an eyebrow. “I believe the Plomeek soup I have brought for us will be far more nutritious than cake.”   
  
I grin, and gaze up at him through my eyelashes. “No doubt.” I draw the soup toward me; suddenly realizing I’m starving. “So why are you here so soon?”   
  
“I had some official business to complete with Starfleet Command. When it had reached a satisfactory conclusion I calculated that it would be forty-one per cent more efficient for me to intercept you as you came out of warp speed on your approach to Rigel rather than making the detour to Vulcan. I suggested as much to Starfleet Command before I departed. Or at least I tried to. Their new operations team is running in a less than efficient manner since Lieutenant Charles was seconded to this mission. It seems he was the only one who understood the contingency plans.”   
  
I chuckle. “Well that would explain a thing or two – my god, Spock, this soup is delicious. Where did you get it?” I begin shoveling spoonfuls into my mouth.   
  
“It is the Plomeek soup from the food slots,” he replies.   
  
I widen my eyes. “This came from our food synthesizers?”   
  
“You have had it many times before. Are you sure you’re quite alright, Jim?”   
  
“I’m better than alright,” I reply through a mouthful of soup. “Say, Spock, are you still in the habit of bringing those giant gespar on board at the start of a mission? I suddenly have a real craving for them.”   
  
Spock rummages around in the box beside him, and draws out a sealed container and a wide flat spoon. “Is this what you want?”   
  
I feel as if my smile will pull my face apart. Spock’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline, as he watches me take the fruit from him and deactivate the vacuum on the container. My eyelids flutter shut involuntarily, as I raise the first spoonful to my lips.   
  
“Yes, Spock.” The laughter sounds weak and thick in my throat. “This is what I want.”


End file.
